Storytelling
by TheLastofUs
Summary: After Metatron steals Castiel's Grace, Castiel Falls to earth human. Consumed with the humane feelings such as regret and hopelessness, he is driven to try to find an end to himself; however, Metatron will not let him go so easily. After all, he wants a great story from the Great Castiel. *Warning: Suicide attempts


_Storytelling_

"It's not your time, Castiel."

And he sees light.

Castiel opens his eyes once more, closing them tightly again. He feels the ghost pains of broken veins and dried blood over his arms and thighs. Six. This is the sixth failed try. Castiel sits up slowly, hanging his head, eyes open, but not quite seeing. With shaking steps, he stands and washes himself off. He is already in the shower since he'd woken, so it's easy to clean up. The tiles are foreign. The water is thick and unhomely. The air is uncomforting. The water is hot, steaming over his shoulders and back.

The blood had long since washed down the drain, but Castiel stands motionless under the showerhead. He looks down at his arms, his body; the scars are fading as they always do. He shuts off the water. Silence had become his compainion these days. His feet touch the cold tile floor and he shivers. He feels the air as cold, as warm, now.

He is human. He is purposeless.

He dries his hair with a towel and walks to his bed, or rather one Dean had prepared for him, dripping onto the comforter. He drops the towel beside him and stares blankly at the sheets before he turns and takes clothes to wear. They hang heavily on his frame. Overwhelmed with new sensations, Castiel feels fire burning through his chest in place of the Grace, no matter how weak, had been before. This type of burning could _hurt_, though.

Like many nights before, Castiel falls asleep with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, a hollow, lead weight.

Castiel is wrong. He is not meant to be human, not meant to feel the drag of air across his skin, not meant to feel his heart tighten in remorse- And suddenly everything that was eats away at him. The massacres he had commited, the wrongdoings he had imposed on others, the betrayal, _everything_, and he couldn't live with it.

The first time his fingers shook. He thought it would be easiest, quickest, to go with a bullet. He had no home, no where to really hide himself, and so he was behind a grocery store. His throat was tight and his knuckles were tighter, but he did not allow doubt to cloud his judgement. He _deserved _to die. The gun was pointed firmly at his heart.

It was quick, pain flared through his body in panick and he fell against the gravel. Breathing became so _hard_, and so Castiel didn't bother. His eyes dulled over just after he heard someone shout for help.

"Castiel, Castiel, you're better than this," Metatron stood beside him now, in the white office they had parted from. "Your human life had just begun, you call this a story?"

"Yes," Castiel said, voice scratchy and weary.

"Not yet," Metatron said. His voice was strong and rang with Grace. Castiel wondered if he had ever sounded like that. So great. (Probably not.)

And then he was gasping again, in the back of an ambulance. People were crowded all around, messing with instruments, and two were over him. There was an oxygen mask over his face and a dulling pain in his chest. He could hardly make out the flurries of words flying through the air. If he had his arms, he would reach up and try to catch them. If he had his wings, he would fly away. But he had neither, the prior being strapped down and the latter being severed.

The bullet had miraculously missed his vital organs by a single millimeter.

They tried to keep him in the hospital for therapy to help with his assumed "depression," but Castiel knew far better than those in the room that what he had was not due to mental illness, but to terrible choices, immense regret, and scream-wrenching hopelessness. It was easy to sneak out, and they had yet to take a name from him.

Castiel had no place to go, and gnawing hunger in his stomach. It made him feel disgusted. He had never had to eat before, and he wouldn't start now; after all, what use is nourishing a soul (Castiel scoffed a pitiful laugh) that wished to end? And that was the second attempt: starvation.

"This story isn't a very amusing one," Metatron crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"It isn't intended to be," Castiel grew more impatient with each word that fell sharply from the archangel's lips. They clanged and screamed when they hit the floor.

Metatron flicked his wrist again and Castiel blinked his eyes to a blue sky and dulling hunger pains in his stomach. He lay against a shack, somewhere in a homeless district. He closed his eyes tightly again and banged his head against the wall behind him.

"Hey, man, you all right?" another man asked, wide gray eyes and scruffy beard.

Castiel nodded stiffly and settled into a more comfortable position. It was a bit chilly. Castiel shivered and hugged his body, letting out a puff of air and watching his breath swirl up and bow until he could no longer see it. The man watched him for a few moments before he held out a can of cooked beans.

"Lookin' a bit thin, there," he said and shook the can as if it would entice Castiel more. It really didn't.

But Castiel took the food nonetheless and pulled a tight smile onto his face. "Thank you," he said geniunely, "You're very kind."

The man shrugged and settled next to Castiel. They didn't speak much more, but his presence offered a bit of comfort. It started to fill the chilling, emptiness inside him. This sinking oblivion, a hole that swallowed him more each second, was suddenly stopped. The relief was indescribable. Castiel looked at the profile of the man, facination dancing in his eyes. It was dark, the moon hanging high in the sky, and the stars slid down the arch of the stranger's nose. Castiel's smile became softer and he looked forward again, opening his mouth only for a spoon.

Castiel felt the yearning for an end come near to disappearing until the man was gone the next day. A lot of people tended to stay around for a night or two before moving on. Castiel didn't even know his name, he realized sadly, and eyes fell to the empty space he used to be. The emptiness returned, high and mighty, it had him by the throat, which was his next attempt.

A week after the fifth (it's how Castiel measured his time these days), Sam and Dean found him. Their eyes were wide and their smiles wider. Castiel was actually surprised they had gone looking for him. Who would go looking for the missing rock in their sack? But Castiel greeted them each with a hug because that's what he was supposed to do. He watched them interract fondly from the back seat of the Impala. Sometimes they would talk to him, but Castiel was focused more on the sound of their voices than the words.

They took him back to the bunker. The lights were bright at first, it reminded Castiel of each time he came back to the world. He hated that light. Conflicted, Castiel remained quiet for a great portion of the time. He was grateful for the company, but he couldn't stand the sight of them all the same. How could they ever look at Castiel for all he'd done? How could they smile at him for all he'd done? He spoke when spoken to, and Sam and Dean seemed happy enough just to find him that they didn't notice it.

Explaining that he was no longer an angel started with fury and ended with defeat and compassion from the Winchesters. A string of curse words shot like an arrow through the air and stuck to the wall an inch to the right of Castiel's head. White knuckled fists welcomed clenched teeth and then the softened fabric of defeat fell over them, namely Dean. Dean always had a habit of getting angry when something like this happened.

They gave Castiel some soup since he needed to eat now. Castiel didn't explain that Metatron stopped Castiel's body from needing food so often. It made for an... unsatisfying story.

And that's all Castiel was, is, ever will be: a story.

That is close to where we are now. Castiel wakes to the sun knocking on his bedroom door. Waking feels like such a chore, his limbs heavy and weary as his heart and mind. Castiel holds the sheets between his fingers. He closes his eyes as if sleep would take him once more, but it never does anyways. Castiel opens his eyes slowly. There's knocking again, but this time it's something more materialized.

Dean pokes his head in the room and asks if Castiel is all right (which seems out of character if you were to ask Castiel) and that breakfast is ready. Castiel says something; it is wordless, mindless, but Dean nods and leaves again. Castiel watches the door shut with fascination before he finally decides to get up.

If his legs felt heavy in bed they feel even heavier as he stands. Castiel rakes a hand through his hair and groans. He lifts his foot slowly and drags himself from the room. He finds his way to the kitchen where he forces himself to eat so not to worry the men who had now given him a home as well as a purpose in the past, as well as trust in the past. He owes them so much.

But he does not let any of this show, of course, he smiles stiffly over a cup of lukewarm coffee, as he always must do. A pang runs through his chest and he knows he has the urge to try again. It's pointless now. Castiel knows that it's impossible to berid himself of the world, but there's that small spark of hope that maybe one time Metatron will say, "seventy-six? That's quite a story, quite an adventure."

And it will all be dark. No more light.

So there's that rush through his veins, that fire ripping through him, the urge to _do something_. His fingers twitch and his eyes flicker over the room on their own. His mind hardly participates anymore. He hadn't tried drug overdose yet, but that was mostly because it was a simple way and not at all interesting.

His thoughts are interrupted by Sam saying something about a ghost in the area, that it'd be a nice run to try to get Castiel used to the human way of Hunting.

"Hunting?" Castiel asks, eyes clouded in confusion.

Dean and Sam look as if they've missed something, Dean speaking first, "Yeah, Hunting, you still remember what that is?"

His tone is teasing, and Castiel isn't sure if he likes it or not yet. "Why would I be Hunting? I'm useless."

Dean's eyebrows pinch together for half a second Castiel could almost convince himself it didn't happen.

"I was terrible at Hunting, you told me so yourself, and even went as far as to say how infantile I would be having no powers- 'baby in a trenchcoat' is that the phrase you used?"

Silence bites at their heels and Castiel vaguely wonders if he'd said something wrong.

They do end up going on the hunt. There isn't much more protest from Castiel, after all, all he wishes is to make up for all the wrong he had done. (If that is even possible, which Castiel believes it isn't.) Everything is quite a blur. Dean teaches him to shoot a handgun and Sam tells him the basics about staying alive. Castiel doesn't listen as closely to Sam's words.

It's easy, though. After half an hour the ghost is gone and they're rolling out of town and back to the bunker. It's only a little under an hour drive. It's autumn, chilly, Castiel presses his palm to the window of the car. He has the urge to open the door and jump out.

"Don't touch the window," Dean's voice shocks him out of his trance. "Get's it all dirty. Your hands have oil on them."

"Sorry," Castiel says absently. His voice is void of nothing and everything. He wants to scream sometimes, how easily living is and how difficult dying is. It's all basically the same concept. It depends on where you would be standing. You would be gone from this live, but would begin life in another. Perhaps this was his penance; living such a torturous life.

Oh Dean is talking. "What?"

"I asked what're you thinking 'bout," Dean repeats. "You look pensive."

"Nothing of import," he mumbles. He never really mumbled as an angel did he? Claws drag down his chest, bleeding, aching pain at the memory of who he used to be. He doesn't know which is worse: being obedient and respected as a part of the Garrison, or to be rebellious as he had, chosen the right path, but be turned into this demon of an angel.

_You have Fallen in every way imaginable, _Castiel laughs wistfully. Hester is even gone now. He remembers her fondly, and it had been returned until she saw his corruption. He vaguely wishes Meg had never stopped Hester from killing him. It is only what he deserves.

"Cas!"

Castiel jolts, shaken.

"You keep zoning out on me! What the hell's wrong with you?"

_Everything_- "Nothing," but he could not worry Dean. It would be another thing he owes him. When will Castiel ever be able to repay what he is indebted to the Winchesters?

They arrive at the bunker just after that. Sam had nodded off somewhere in the drive and just now shook himself awake. Dean follows Castiel to the door of the bunker, the latter wishing to simply get into the room Sam and Dean had shown him to be his own. He had the itching, dragging, dripping, groaning, screaming desire to try once more. It would do no good, he knew, but this agony ripping away at him demanded he lose himself once more.

Dean calls after him, Castiel hardly recognizes, something about food but honestly Castiel could find it in him to care more than nothing at all. He closes the door and decides to do it quickly. He grabs the end of his tie and pulls until he can't breathe, can't see, can't move, can't-

"Castiel."

He is truly growing sick of Metatron's voice.

"How many times will we meet like this?"

"I don't know."

Heaven was never silent before. It was always ringing with prayer, hope, love, dreams, happiness- but now- now it is deafeningly quiet. The sky crashed down before and now it's doing it again; Castiel wishes for oblivion.

"I've given you life. Live it," Metatron tells him, keeping up a peaceful facade, but Castiel is no fool, Metatron is getting angry.

"I've never taken a liking to rules," Castiel pokes him further. "Why should I ever listen to a false God like yourself?"

Metatron is upon him, fist in his hair and pain rocketing through Castiel's being without another touch.

"Watch your tongue."

"When have I ever?" Castiel spits, "You yearn for something you will never get: respect and loyalty. You will never attain the goals you have set for yourself, you will never be a God let alone a just, revered God, and in so many ways, that places you beneath me-"

Castiel's last word is broken off and thrown in all directions, soaring and turning back on him, stabbing him through the sides. Excrutiating pain rips away at all that he is and he screams. The ground falls from under him and his mind collapses. He is drowning and riped apart all at once.

Metatron laughs and drops him. "I am not that easy," he says pointing a finger, voice wavering, yet booming, "You will _live_, Castiel, you will live until I am satisfied with the story you have made for yourself."

"_CAS! _Don't you friggin' _dare _do this!"

"Dean, h-he's gone, he isn't-"

Castiel tosses his head back with a groan. Thunder rolls through his mind and his limbs. His eyes feel dull, probably are, they've lost their light so, so long ago.

"Cas? Cas- shit- Come on, sit up-"

There's a hand on his shoulder, helping him up. Dean's hands are strong, rough, setting sparks through his skin. Fire burns away Castiel's heart, but somehow it's _different_. This kind of burn, this sensation, he longed for for so long he had no idea it existed. It is whisky, intoxicating- and just as soon as it is there, it's gone. Castiel hangs his head, not wishing to confront the Winchesters about this. His throat is sore, but healing.

"What the hell was that?" Dean's voice was but a whisper.

Castiel lifts his face and opens his mouth to speak, but is stopped as Dean's fist hits his cheekbone. Castiel is knocked backwards.

"Dean!"

"You don't get to do that!" Dean ignored Sam's disapproval. "People like us- We don't get that way out! We go down guns blazing, swords clashing, words flying, _bloody_! Not something like _this_!"

Shadow cast over Castiel's face, he remains silent. Sam grabs Dean's arm and tells him softly to calm down. Dean shakes him off, he will be upset if he damn wants to, is somewhat close to what he says.

"It's pathetic!" Dean shouts at one point. It stung more than it should have. "You face monsters, demons, angels- damn _Lucifer himself_- and it's you- _you _who offs yourself!"

"Then why don't _you _do it?" Castiel shouts at one point.

Confusion and shock flickers through Dean's (beautiful, wow, when had Castiel started thinking of Dean like that?) eyes. "Do what?"

"Kill me!" Castiel burst, cheeks damp and burning like his heart.

Dean's eyes widen a fraction of a centimeter and Castiel pulls himself up and onto Dean's lap, grabbing the pistol from Dean's belt and shoving it into his hands. Castiel's hands tremble and shake, but before he can get Dean's finger on the trigger it's Sam that pulls Castiel off of him.

Dean is wordless, aghast.

Sam is talking, shouting at Castiel, he's angry, but not like Dean. Castiel is in hysterics, tears falling down his chin ceaselessly. Dean's hands are shaking. The pistol is on the floor and Dean avoides it as if it were poison. Sam drags Castiel from the room and drags a hand down his face, apologizing first, and then firmly demanding a promise that Castiel will stop acting like this.

Castiel lies; he nods numbly.

Sam seems reluctant to leave Castiel alone again, but it was only reasonable that he calm Dean down, too. Dean didn't speak much the rest of the day.

Sleep steals Castiel away not much later. He dreams of Dean's hands, his arms, holding him tighter and longer than they had before.

His eyes, his cheekbones, shoulders, back, _all of him_, are somehow so much more enchanting. It's disgusting, Castiel knows it is, but he can't stop. It's the only thing that stops the aching. His hands fist in the sheets, he closes his eyes tightly. If only Dean could read into his mind, he would probably take him up on the offer to kill him.

Castiel rolls over and stuffs his face in the pillow. He doesn't want to feel such desires. He _shouldn't _feel such desires. But no matter Castiel's mindset, he falls deeper and deeper. Sam knocks on the door moments later and tells Castiel that he has to come out and eat breakfast.

He does. Each bite turns to ash under his tongue.

The next days are horrible. Dean speaks to him in clipped tones and he's more snappy than he usually is. Castiel doesn't touch a gun for another week until Sam hesitantly loads one for him on the next hunt. It feels heavy in his hands. It's another mindless job. Castiel wonders if the Winchesters keep picking easy cases solely because of Castiel. It makes him feel incompetent.

Castiel's eyes follow Dean's hands, his eyes. His heart swells and he falls through the concrete floor. _Humanity_. Making him feel things he shouldn't. He isn't even sure what this is, building from his toes and shooting through the top of his head, he isn't sure what makes Dean different from Sam different from anyone else he'd ever loved, but not loved like _this_. Castiel holds the gun tighter.

Gunshots. Something goes wrong. Because Dean is not supposed to be crumpled over on the ground, he's supposed to be _radiant_. He's supposed to be warm. There are more gunshots and Sam is chasing a monster through to another room. Castiel rushes to Dean-

"I'm fine," Dean coughs, "Follow S-" he groans and gives up trying to sit up. His hand comes back from his abdomen, red and quivering. He places it back down and presses against the wound.

"You're not- You won't- You won't stop bleeding," Castiel says panickedly.

"'course I will," Dean slurs. "Gotten w'rse than this before."

Castiel presses his palms atop Dean's hand, crimson and sticky and revolting, as if it would help. His heart skips under the waves of the ocean, the dark, unseeing ocean, and he presses his lips to Dean's forehead.

"You're not going to die."

"Shit," Dean gasps. He can't be having trouble breathing. Not already. "Cas, tell Sam-"

"You're not going to die!" Castiel shouts.

Dean's breaths are so shaky, so unreliable, it makes Castiel want to scream.

Castiel stops, eyes wide in realization. He picks up the pistol that had long since been discarded on the ground.

"_Don't_!" Dean's voice is hardly a whisper. "Don't- Don't do that to yourself. 'specialy not over me."

Castiel's hand shakes. "I'm not- It's- I'm making a deal, okay?"

Dean's grip is weak on his arm and another gunshot sounds.

"Casti-"

"Save Dean Winchester," Castiel interrupts. "Anything- I'll do anything-"

Metatron smiles. "I am not an unjust God," he says in mock-kindness. "It is simply his time."  
>"But not mine?" Castiel demands, "Take my life in return- Just- Just save him. Please."<p>

The smile is sickening, but it is at the least bit assuring Metatron will make a deal of some sort, "I will save one of you," Metatron appeases, "Or both. The story is what's important. Everyone loves a happy ending as you and Dean may have had, had your time been longer, but a tragic ending is hard to pin down right and still satisfy."

Castiel's heart is cold in his chest.

"Is the story I have made for myself... Satsifying?"


End file.
